


Drunken Hands and Sober Hopes

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire drinks his way to slightly impaired judgement and Enjolras struggles to understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunken Hands and Sober Hopes

**Author's Note:**

> Another e/r fic with less bending reality to get these two to do it but still really cheesy. I'm pretty much incapable of not being cheesy. Anyway I'm still not sure where I was going with this and its probably a bit OOC again so any and all criticism is welcome xoxo merry belated christmas you beautiful babes

Enjolras sucked in a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. Another meeting had been adjourned and his friends were eager to preform their duties of rallying the people of France, the people who were flocking to their cause in droves, the people who believed they could break the oppression that was gripping them tightly.

He should have been pleased, elated even, that their plans could realistically come to fruition. But tonight there was something trying his patience, a gnat that wouldn't cease circling his head no matter how much he swatted it away.

A gnat that was apparently fucking hilarious, judging by the way Courfeyrac was doubled over in laughter, all red-faced with tears shining in his eyes. Grantaire, the irritating insect that he was, looked quite pleased with himself. Or maybe he was just drunk and content. Enjolras really couldn't tell.

A headache was creeping in behind his eyes. He moved to collect his belongings and head home when Grantaire caught his eye. The man perked up in an instant and shouted, “Ah, fearless leader,” he raised the bottle in his hand and started stumbling away from the small group around him. “Wait a moment, I would have words!”

Great, just what he needed, words with the drunkard. Enjolras rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, trying to ease some of the tension in his body. No doubt it would increase tenfold by the end of the conversation to follow. Grantaire approached him clumsily, one hand steadying himself on chairs and tables and the other holding a wine bottle above his head as if he were afraid it would spill or be snatched from his hands. Definitely drunk then.

“I can't help but notice,” he slurred, “You neglected to assign _me_ any duties.” The arm with the bottle roamed in zigzags as he spoke. Enjolras followed the movement with his eyes, wondering if it was supposed to be some failed attempt at expressing his feelings through gesticulating.

“ _Grantaire_ ,” he began, grinding his teeth, “Do you remember what happened the last time I entrusted you with some job?”

The motion of his arm slowed but did not stop. Enjolras found himself growing more and more aggravated until he reached out and took the bottle from Grantaire's grasp. The man gasped and then honest to god _pouted_ about it.

“Well?” Enjolras asked curtly, setting the bottle down behind him. Some people in the café had fallen silent to watch the spectacle before them.

“I became distracted,” Grantaire mumbled, looking sheepishly at the floor, “And did not complete it.”

“Then why, _pray tell_ , should I allow you to assist us if you aren't going to do it properly?”

“Because I am eager for redemption,” he moved closer to Enjolras and continued, “To prove I am worth your attention.”

And then Grantaire dropped to his knees. Which is inappropriate on its own, but things started getting a little weird when he grabbed Enjolras's hand and brought it to his mouth, just holding it there between clasped hands as if he were in prayer.

The entire act seemed so flamboyant and silly to the rest of the café. Laughter roared from the table where Courfeyrac and Joly were seated. Enjolras heard soft giggles somewhere to his left. Grantaire also had a lopsided smile on his face, like he thought it was funny but wasn't entirely sure why. His eyes, though, were so striking and clear that Enjolras felt as though they were stripping him bare.

Enjolras wanted to smack the man before him, but settled for jerking his hand away. Grantaire, in his drunken clumsiness, followed the motion with his entire body. He fell forward heavily, grasping Enjolras's hips for balance, and giggled into the upright man's belly button. Enjolras recoiled so sharply that he nearly knocked over Grantaire's discarded wine bottle, but did not escape the grip. 

Courfeyrac looked like he was going to have an aneurism from laughing so hard. Enjolras was not amused. “Like dealing with an intoxicated twelve year old,” he muttered.

Combeferre's voice drifted to the rescue, calling for Grantaire to _leave Enjolras be_. Grantaire did not move away, just shifted so the side of his head was still mostly pressed against Enjolras's stomach, but angled up at his face. It was such an awkward position, yet Enjolras felt heat settle in his belly at the sight. Those piercing eyes were drilling holes through his skull, looking far too sober. Grantaire muttered a soft, almost silent _please._ Enjolras had to grip his hair and push him away.

Because Enjolras wasn't fond of the fluttering in his chest at the sight of a man on his knees, _pleading_ to him. Especially when that man was Grantaire. He walked away, head pounding, and heard a series of thumps behind him. Grantaire scrambled to his feet and latched onto Enjolras's arm.

“Please,” he began, “I am not stupid-”

“Yes you are,” Combeferre cut in, “Stupid with drunkenness.”

Grantaire had the gall to look slightly offended.

“He is right, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, his voice somehow still steady, “You are far too drunk tonight. More so than usual. You want a task?”

Grantaire looked hesitant, but nodded.

“Sleep yourself sober and do not come to me drunk again,” Enjolras knew he was asking the impossible, but he wasn't in the mood for Grantaire's antics.

By some act of God, Grantaire must have gotten the hint. He released his grip on Enjolras, who immediately turned on his heels and walked off. Farewells were tossed his way as he gathered his belongings and strode for the exit. Before departing, he chanced a glace over his shoulder and regretted it the moment he caught sight of Grantaire.

The man was seated once more with a bottle in front of him, already disregarding Enjolras's wishes. But his _eyes_ , his eyes were so fierce. Dark circles and lackadaisical posture suggested apathy in his whole character, but those eyes suggested fight. They sliced into Enjolras, heightening his aggravation. So he faced forward once more and marched away from the pulsing energy of the café, rubbing furiously at his temples.

-

Two days passed without Grantaire making a single drunken scene. Enjolras strode through the café with a renewed bounce in his step, nodding to Combeferre before telling him he was about to turn in for the night.

“I think I will retire for the evening as well,” Combeferre said, “Let us walk together.”

As they left, Combeferre asked about Enjolras's foul mood a few evenings back.

“Ah,” he replied, “I had an ache growing in my head all day, that is all.”

Combeferre raised his eyebrows. “You mean it had nothing to do with our favorite drunkard?”

Enjolras simply grimaced at his companion.

“I will never understand why he attends our meetings,” Combeferre continued, “And I will never understand why you never object to him hovering among us.”

“Maybe he enjoys the company,” Enjolras said dryly.

“You find him distasteful,” Combeferre said slowly, thoughtfully, “Yet you don't drive him away.”

“Driving away Grantaire would be about as simple as driving away the National Guard,” Enjolras bit out exasperatedly, “It would take time and man-power that I cannot spare when I am _actually_ preparing to drive away the National Guard.”

“Well, at least he's a kind fellow when not on drunken tirades,” Combeferre said, “And perhaps some day his admiration for you will shape him into a greater man.”

They were close to Enjolras's apartment when Combeferre stopped abruptly. Enjolras looked away from him and saw a figure slouched on the stoop leading into his home.

“Speak of the devil,” Combeferre muttered.

Enjolras felt another headache coming on. “Should we leave him there?”

Combeferre looked impassive but said, “There is a nip in the air tonight, he could catch a chill.”

“A chill will be the least of his worries when he drinks himself to death.”

They approached the slumbering man and shook his shoulders. Grantaire simply sagged, limp as a rag doll. Only his steady breathing reassured the men that he wasn't a corpse.

“Help me maneuver him inside,” Enjolras said. Combeferre complied with a look of mild bewilderment.

They lugged him up into Enjolras's apartment and dropped his drink-slackened body down on the settee. Combeferre rolled him onto his side, remarking that their efforts would be wasted if the drunk managed to choke do death on his own vomit.

Enjolras squeezed Combeferre's shoulder and gave his thanks. Combeferre nodded and showed himself out, leaving Enjolras with a passed-out Grantaire.

Wonderful.

Hours later, Grantaire slowly made his way back to consciousness. Enjolras kneeled beside him and handed him a glass of water. Grantaire sniffed it and looked faintly disappointed, but drank anyway.

“Try not to be ill all over my floor,” Enjolras warned, yet there was a tender sort of pity in his voice.

Grantaire just sat the glass down on the rug and grumbled unintelligibly into the cousin.

“You know,” Enjolras said, “When I told you to sleep the alcohol out of your system, I didn't mean you should do it in front of my apartment.”

A puzzled look flitted across Grantaire's face before realization hit.

“Apologies” he said, “I just went where my legs took me.”

“And why did your legs take you to my doorstep?”

Grantaire shrugged best as he could from his position and said, “You would have to ask them.”

Enjolras simply groaned and bowed his head. “The hour is late,” he said, “Can you see yourself out?”

Grantaire stared at him silently for a moment. He reached out and gingerly took one golden curl between his fingers, pulling it straight and thumbing the texture. Enjolras clenched his jaw and tried to keep the heat from his face.

“You're still drunk,” he said flatly.

“No,” Grantaire let his hand fall to a sturdy shoulder, “But the thought of good wine is tempting.” One thick, lethargic thumb rubbed circles into tense muscles. “If only I had some distraction from the cravings-” Enjolras caught the hand in his own, effectively stilling it.

“You _are_ drunk, Grantaire,” he said, “But if it will keep you away from drinking then you are welcome to sleep here tonight.”

“You would have me continue to sleep on this rock you call a couch?” Grantaire asked, affronted.

“I apologize,” Enjolras shoot back with narrowed eyes, “My humble abode is not fit for a queen such as yourself.”

Grantaire smiled lazily. “You know me,” he said, “Only the silk sheets of Versailles will do.”

A flat unimpressed look came across Enjolras's face, one not entirely unlike that of a cat in a bathtub. He stood then and said, “The offer is there for as long as your delicate bones and soft muscles can handle it.”

He walked away then, leaving Grantaire slumped across in the sofa in a half-drunken heap.

-

Enjolras woke early and padded out of his bedroom, cold toes quietly thumping against the hardwood. He was surprised to see Grantaire awake, sitting on the couch with his elbows on his knees and his head bowed. He looked grim in the darkness. Enjolras feared the man was about to be violently ill all over the rug.

“Grantaire,” he said softly, as if the air in front of him was delicate enough to shatter if he spoke to loudly. Grantaire remained silent and Enjolras felt his body wind up tightly with tension. “Grantaire,” he said again, more loudly, and Grantaire raised his head a fraction. He did not acknowledge Enjolras, his eyes stayed glued to the ground. Enjolras sighed. _It's to early for this,_ he though, and walked over to where Grantaire was seated.

“Do you feel sickness coming on?” he asked, and hesitantly reached out for Grantaire's shoulder. His hand was caught before it made contact. Grantaire kept his head bowed as if shame was weighing him down as he whispered, “I _did_ try to do ask you asked.”

Enjolras had to keep from rolling his eyes. “I did not expect you to be cured of alcoholism just because _I_ asked it,” he sighed, “You will most likely die with a bottle in hand.”

Grantaire's shoulders shook with bitter laughter. Enjolras peered down at him with pity. Really, the man was a walking sea of self-destruction. He was like a tornado that stayed in one place, ruining the ground below it's feet and spinning in upon itself until it was nothing. Enjolras felt something small inside of him break each time he saw this man. He just couldn't wrap his head around how someone could live a life like that. 

Enjolras began to pull his hand away, but Grantaire tugged on it with more force. He pulled it close to his face and pressed his dry, chapped lips to the palm. Enjolras couldn't tell if its supposed to be a kiss, but it sent his body rigid with tension.

“What are you doing?”

“I would please you if I could,” Grantaire mumbled into the hand. “I would do everything in the world for you. I would eliminate your enemies single-handedly if I could, anything to see you satisfied. But I cannot.” He dropped Enjolras's hand then and stood, keeping his eyes downcast as he quickly made for the door. Enjolras caught him by the arm, shaking him slightly in an attempt to get him to look up.

 “I am not asking that of you,” he said. Grantaire seemed transfixed with the hand wrapped around his upper arm, right above the elbow. Enjolras ducked a bit to get a look at his eyes and saw a sort of panicked distress there.  His stomach tied itself into knots at the sight.

“What has gotten into you?” he asked, more to himself than to Grantaire.

Enjolras was about to pull away when Grantaire asked his hand, “What could I do for you then?”

With more venom than he had intended, Enjolras spat out, “Nothing.” Grantaire's eyes snapped up and Enjolras noticed that any trace of intoxicated mirth from the last evening they'd seen each other was gone. They were still sharp and clear, but dark and heavy with misery. Enjolras thought for a moment that he was looking at Grantaire more sober than he had ever seen him. He felt a small pang of guilt as Grantaire jerked his arm free and walked away.

Enjolras did not stop him.

-

Some time much later, Enjolras strode into the Musain, taking care not to trip over the objects littering the floor. It was late enough in the night that most of the citizens and students at the barricade were dozing. Grantaire however had just woken up, and there was already a bottle in his hand.

“Good to see you've awoken,” Enjolras said with a dull edge of disdain. Grantaire, who was tipping back in his chair with to much grace for a drunk, raised his bottle in greeting.

“Have a drink,” he said, “Just so I can say I saw you do it.” He took a swig and added, “But don't tell Joly, this wine was his a few hours ago.” Enjolras approached him and very gingerly took the bottle from his hand and sat it down at the table. Grantaire's smile slowly faded, but his eyes didn't leave Enjolras.

They stared at each other in strained silence for a moment. Enjolras studied the man before him and saw someone who cared little for their cause, yet he remained. The man was an enigma, Enjolras couldn't keep himself from asking, “Why are you here, at our barricade?”

Grantaire let his chair fall back to four legs and looked up at Enjolras. “I would follow wherever you go.”

“And what will you do once the fighting is done?”

“I don't know,” Grantaire said, “Perhaps I'll find me a girl to celebrate with, or maybe stay wandering around in your shadow for a while.”

Enjolras sighed and leaned on the table, right next to Grantaire. He folded his arms and sternly looked down at the drunkard. “I have given up on understanding you.”

Grantaire barked out a hollow, bitter laugh. “Of course you have. I would be surprised if someone as pure, as radiant as you could understand someone as _filthy_ as me.” He picked at his fingernails in a nervous way and asked, “How would you fix me, so you _could_ understand?”

“You lack passion,” Enjolras said, “For anything but drinking. Perhaps if you found something you could love enough to actually fight for...” He trailed off when Grantaire looked up at him from below his messy mop of hair. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes, as if he was amused by Enjolras's disapproval.

“You are a flower,” he said after a moment, “Only to bloom in the presence of the sun.”

Enjolras was completely lost for a moment. “A flower?” he asked. “What are you talking about? We're you listening to me just now?”

“I was listening,” Grantaire replied, “You were speaking of passion, something I apparently lack.”

“There is no 'apparently' about it.”

Grantaire ignored him. “I too have qualities of a flower, though I am far more withered than you, and far less brilliant when in bloom.”

Enjolras palmed his face in mild exasperation. “You have been awake for how long and you are already drunk?”

“Inebriation means nothing to me, I function just as well drunk as you do sober.”

“I doubt that.”

“Perhaps _you_ are my sun,” Grantaire said suddenly.

“Excuse me?” Enjolras was getting tired of this conversation, if he wanted to talk about flowers and the sun he could just wake Jehan.

“And perhaps not,” Grantaire mumbled and averted his eyes. Enjolras leaned down a bit, trying to catch his gaze. He asked, "What is that supposed to mean?"  But Grantaire just stared down at his hands.

“Do you wish to be my sun?” Grantaire questioned. Enjolras wasn't entirely sure what he was asking. The entire conversation seemed like some fuzzy out-of-body experience, like they were in an underwater dream.

“Do _you_ wish to be _my_ sun?” Enjolras eventually asked in return. It made about as much sense to him as anything else he could say. Grantaire just shook his head, very slowly.

“No, no, I could never,” he continued shaking his head, “I do not know if you will ever find your sun. Perhaps it is France, some fantastical new France. Not a beautiful girl or an inebriate.” Grantaire reached behind Enjolras for the wine bottle, but Enjolras caught his hand. Grantaire froze like an animal caught in a trap as Enjolras pulled his hand close and scrutinized it.

Enjolras looked closely at the creases in his palm, the few dry calluses adorning his knuckles, the blunt fingernails that were picked at too often, the short hairs on top of tendons and veins. Enjolras looked down at the hand and thought for sure there was _something_ worth salvaging there, but he couldn't find it even if he tried. No, Grantaire would have to save himself. He would have to find a passion and fight for it on his own.

Enjolras turned the hand over so the palm was facing up. He leaned down and very deliberately placed his lips in the center. Grantaire sucked in a breath, and wore a look of such shock that it was almost comical. His eyes were wide and shining with disbelief and awe, as if he had been kissed by a god. Enjolras let the hand drop, and noted with a sense of satisfaction that it fell far from the bottle of wine.

“Flowers need more than just sunshine,” Enjolras said, “They need rain as well, a force to oppose and nurture them, so they may become strong enough to stand tall.”

He turned then and headed for the door, leaving Grantaire sitting in stunned silence behind him. Perhaps Grantaire really was too far gone to see any kind of brightness in the world, and no sun could make him bloom. Enjolras couldn't help but hold onto a fraying line of hope that some day his drunk would find something to fight for.

Right before leaving, Enjolras glanced back.  Those eyes were clear and sharp, cutting through him once more.


End file.
